


All Is As Usual. Only—

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Phototropic [12]
Category: Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ethos Needs More Love, Everyone Needs A Hug, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Loss, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:17:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8257369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: The expected retaliatory attack from the Colterons does not strike the Kepler, as everyone was bracing for, but such comes at a heavy price. As some of the men pore over reports of casualties from another ship, wondering if they've lost comrades, brothers, friends, Selene realizes, hard-and-fast, that just because you said something doesn't make it true—And now what do you do with the truth he'll never know?Or: "Do you love me?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this is kind of a divergent thing from whatever else I'd intended to write next. Said intentions never bore fruit and after a while of fighting for something (that ended up just being characters wading through more depressive . . . stuff) I just decided to try a different tack.
> 
> I also got to thinking about poor Ethos (whom I love, by the way, to pieces), and how even though he claims it's alright, Selene and Praxis' friendship might still be like a bit of salt in a wound. In my headcanon of the AU that's SF:E, Ethos and Praxis _are_ pretty close, though to what degree I haven't figured out yet: still, I think Ethos will always be justifiably wary, will well-remember the days when he was next-to- _nothing_ to Praxis, in the wake of the latter's grief/traumatic shock/etc. So for Selene to constantly be gravitating towards Praxis can't feel great (even though that, in its turn, is decidedly platonic, however much they dance around the idea of other things).
> 
> As it were, Selene's made a point of thinking throughout a few stories now that he needs to check in on Ethos/make it up to him because even he knows that it's not really fair to the linguist . . . The whole situation (Selene's trip with Praxis to the observation deck? Or Praxis being Selene's main confidante in general, especially when things get bad?) makes Helios' Navigator just one more person to overlook Ethos: he always seems to be in _someone's_ shadow. (I mean, yes, Selene saved the _Kepler_ but who cracked the second language of the _Derelict_?! Who else realized that what was happening wasn't caused by a virus but a person? _Kudos_ , Ethos!)
> 
> So, a little Ethos redemption.
> 
> And some not-so-great news for Selene.
> 
> Helios might make this more complicated than it is . . .
> 
> Or not? After all, grief's complicated and life's messy anyhow.
> 
> (I actually hadn't expected this to carry a bit more of my headcanon of Helios' backstory, but there we go.)
> 
> Also: "Kua mau taku iro": "I should have known better."
> 
> Oh! And Shiloh's surname wasn't intended to sound phonetically the same as Keeler, heh. I was thinking of Garrison Keillor for some reason. Do I ever miss his radio show and his stories.
> 
> Anywho, reviews/thoughts/comments/critiques/all that good stuff are oh-so-welcome. I do hope you enjoy!! <3

"Afon."

It was early, before the day-shift lights, before Keeler would ever have thought of calling the Navigators to the bridge. But Encke had so called the Fighters, and his Afon's shifted form and his absence and the cold were enough to rouse Selene, however careful Helios had been, however subtle in his waking.

"Shh. Go back to sleep."

The Navigator's hand reached out, searching for him blindly, eyes still closed, still half-asleep. Obligingly the Fighter let his fingertips run along the upturned, proffered palm and regretted it immediately when Selene's breath became a hard exhale.

"Just sleep, Rawiri . . ."

In truth, Helios hated Encke's drills—this early, anyway—even if their bi-weekly running up and down the _Kepler_ 's decks was best done well before breakfast. And perhaps it was for the aesthetic of the thing—the cold to sharpen them, the dark corridors to give ardor to their steps with just the runner-lights to guide them . . .

"I'll see you later, cariad."

At the door, suited up, catching the low staccato of other steps en route to Encke's starting-point, Helios also caught the Navigator's whisper—"Hm, e ipo"—and smiled: if resigned to eight miles and, in all likelihood, a race with Cain, there was the promise of a hot shower and Selene waiting and a breakfast shared.

* * *

Selene pressed his nose into his Fighter's pillow, breathing deeply, half-awake, dream-caught and lucid both—their bunk had a surreal quality to it, the shadows sharp, the cold, cold air against his skin a beast with gentle teeth.

For mornings like this he wished the Navigators had a schedule similar—that Keeler might at least rouse them so early, too . . . _But that's a selfish thing. No one else minds it this much, do they? Their Fighter's absence? Tch. Rawiri, you're clingy . . ._

Almost wistfully he stood, sheets still half-wrapped around his waist, the sensual sway of austere regulation cloth reminiscent of his Afon's hands. For sheer distraction in the wake of elusive sleep, he slid his datapad from the desk and was surprised to see that a coded message awaited him, distributed only to the Navigators. Selene's mind was immediately focused, taut: there must have been a skirmish somewhere, and the names that awaited him were a confirmed list of the dead.

 _Just_ lost Navigators, though, hence the select spread of recipients: if the Fighters received such messages of their own, he never knew: neither his Afon nor Praxis brought the subject up, and well enough: let the living mourn their dead and think no more of them: waste no time with names which meant nothing . . . The probability of a Fighter knowing anyone besides their Navigator and the few they served with was taken for granted as slight: names without meaning, without connection, were themselves a measure of disservice.

And yet Selene never ceased to be surprised when the list was not task-names, was not a row of pixels representing husks waiting to be filled by someone else's body: whatever was said of regulations, the Alliance at least offered its men that final respect: the list was always _names_ and task-names were never repeated: why Praxis, this time, had his Ethos instead of Logos . . .

He read them aloud, softly, one by one, picking up the rhythm of an honorific chant, reasoning that if these men weren't his ancestors by blood, their being Navigators, all of them, must amount to something.

Until half-lidded eyes caught, snapped wide, registering something deep within his subconscious long before his mind caught up, and then his tongue, and then the rhythm of the chant was lost and he couldn't even muster up a sense of shame—just—he didn't know—wordlessness and emptiness and worse—

* * *

_Shiloh Keillor._

* * *

Encke pushed them hard: down the hall they could still hear him baying out the slowest—which, judging from his tone, seemed to somehow encompass everyone.

Except for them. Footfalls and harsh breath but silence nonetheless—the three of them abreast—Cain, Helios, Praxis. The latter's hand flicked out every so often, reassuring himself of the wall he couldn't see; Cain's teeth were clenched and so his whistled exhalations made him sound like a creature neither wanted wakened; Helios tried to lose himself in the rhythm of the run and hadn't quite yet caught that thread where his body knew what it was doing and he didn't need to think, didn't need to be _aware_ of his aching legs and the searing rawness in his throat.

_Six miles in. Fuck this._

"Hey!"

_—Praxis?_

" _Hey_!"

A jerk of the Fighter's head, caught from the corner of one eye. _Want to talk, then?_

Obligingly he slowed his pace—not much—he wanted to keep Cain still in striking distance, and well enough Praxis knew to keep this brief lest Cain find some second wind and beat them—Helios' competitive ego was too fragile a thing for that. But they had two miles, and this was a talk as needed to happen.

His and Selene's scores had been improving in the VR sims, had clambered back to what they used to be, the best of the _Kepler_. Abel and Cain, somehow, had been gracious, though Helios suspected it had far more to do with the Navigator than the Fighter. The men of the _Reliant_ , if their scores were second-best, were nothing, in Helios' mind, to Ethos and Praxis—

But—

Ethos was tight-lipped about it, according to Selene, but Praxis was going through a hard time of it, as sometimes happened. Just the other day he'd slipped up, hadn't called his Ethos "Ethos," had been an incoherent screaming mess when Encke (of all people) had finally wrested him from the VR capsule and tried to calm him down. Encke hadn't asked for them since then, and the early-morning drills as per Hayden's orders were rounded out with the head Fighter and, at times, Keeler: otherwise it was the _Edifice_ against AI—but Helios still couldn't understand how the hell beating a computer was so hard. Except—

Choosing to "lose" Selene, if dulled, still hurt. Still gave him pause. Still left him clawing through sedative-thick sleep from dreams that he couldn't remember, not even when his Rawiri was there, was always there, was fine.

"What, Praxis?"

Short, sharp words. No breath to waste on eloquence.

Praxis ducked his head.

"Proud of you."

"For what?"

"What you've—done."

"No choice—is there?—Orders. Just—has to be."

A whole lap, then—the corridors still dark—a lap and not a word between them, just their labored breathing and their pounding steps.

Because there was _nothing_ Praxis could say to that. Orders effectively took away one's choice until there was none? No. There was _always_ a choice, and for most—for him, nearly, had Ethos not been his saving grace—it led to sinking, down and down and _down_ : a bottle or a needle or a bleedout.

 _How fucking naïve_ are _you?_

But he couldn't say that—couldn't—

A breath. Another lap: Encke wouldn't stand for their using the lifts and had them shimmying up and down emergency maintenance ladders. Helios dropped down first, not far behind Cain, while Praxis luxuriated a moment in staring down at the former, wondering if it was a sin to pity before reminding himself that there wasn't such a thing as that. No sin, not really, no matter that he could spit a pretty word with Selene about _timshel_. But pity? Yes, and pity was insufferable.

Pity was what he _got,_ though, from everyone, even those who didn't speak or look at him, who couldn't stomach the fact that he didn't wear that Goddamned eyepatch anymore—

Encke's baying reached his ears, the echoes morphing into words: he wasn't chewing them out now, but keeping cadence in an old, old song.

Praxis swore, jumped down the ladder, struggled not to cry out as he realized (yet again) that he'd misjudged the distance: pain ratcheted up his ankles and legs and it took a moment before he could stumble forward.

But Helios was waiting for him all the same, because some things were more important than catching up with Cain.

* * *

"Ethos?"

The linguist stirred, rubbing at weary eyes, brushing flyaway hair from his face. He still needed to shower before breakfast: better that he not be here when Praxis returned, or at least that it not be so obvious he'd never gotten back to sleep after his Fighter left.

_Selene . . . ?_

Ethos half-stumbled to the door, glanced down at himself, shook his head. "One sec. I'm still in my pajamas."

"I don't care. Please. Ethos."

Even through the door he could hear the edge to that silken, melodic voice: briefly reminded of the fact that he'd been meaning to ask Selene about his ancestral tongue, Ethos realized that this wasn't a morning for formalities. Pajamas it was; he was wearing pants, at least, and therefore considered himself comparatively decent, given how most Fighters thought nothing of wandering around the dormitory corridor half-naked.

Selene was a silhouette, harsh-edged, blurred in places by the runner-lights reflected off his skin: he wasn't dressed, either, although Ethos was glad of the dark when his cheeks burned, when he realized that his friend was still in his shorts and nothing more. Only then did he realize how intrinsically _wrong_ something must be: Selene had never thought so little as to come like this.

"I'm sorry—"

"No—uhm—but Praxis isn't—Helios left, too, didn't he?—"

"This isn't—I don't want him. Ethos—"

Ethos stood aside, let Selene slide past, heard him pull up Praxis' chair at the desk and sink down. He turned, heart pounding and throat tight: he hadn't forgotten the month when Helios was gone and Selene had so often stayed here with them because to sleep alone was hell. His voice now was as it had been then.

But Ethos was not afraid, did not think less of himself compared to Praxis: Selene had come here for _him_ and if he and Praxis otherwise were close—

His Fighter and Selene hadn't spent much time together anyway, of late, and no matter—which of them was his Navigator and bedmate, after all? The old insecurities weren't worth holding onto—not now—not when Praxis, again and again when in a steady mind, made a point to prove to Ethos that he had nothing to fear—that he was worth more than he could know, that he was perfect, that even his endearing quirks were part of what made _him_ Praxis' Ethos—something no one else could be—not Abel—not Selene—

He shook his head, staring at said Navigator, trying to read something into the angled form who now slumped at their desk. He felt his way back to his own chair, sank down, reached out through the semi-dark to lay a hand on the latter's shoulder, suppressing a surprised squeak when his hand met flesh because he'd forgotten Selene's state of general undress.

Because he felt the scars there, too.

"What's going on?" he whispered finally.

"Did you read the list?"

"Oh." Ethos glanced at his datapad, still glowing faintly. "Yeah. I did. Everyone's been talking about the 'Terons coming after us but I guess some other patrolling ship . . ."

"I know someone. I . . . knew."

"Selene."

"Don't—"

_(. . . Breathe.)_

"Just . . . don't, please don't, call me that, Ethos."

"Okay, I'm sorry."

Silence for a moment, as if Ethos were hoping but wouldn't ask, though Selene would never tell: names were his and Afon's only.

"So—"

Selene shook his head, cutting off the linguist's question, hating the fact that there really wasn't anything to say, or that he knew _how_ to say.

"C'mere."

Ethos slid his chair over, pulled Selene close, felt him relax, felt that gorgeous head drop against his shoulder. Even _he_ knew that words sometimes weren't worth it, that what one needed most was this, was closeness, was just knowing that someone else was there and cared. Out here—well—Helios and Praxis were the exceptions—but here there didn't seem to be so much of that. The Alliance bought into that stoic mentality as well, which was a shame: if they didn't want their men going down the road Praxis almost traveled, it would be far better to encourage this sort of camaraderie, affection: platonic, to be sure, but—

_No, you're just assigned a new Navigator the day after you lose your first and—_

"Who was he?" Ethos murmured.

Selene was shivering, but spoke. "His name was Shiloh. We trained together . . . after . . . you know about the _Swift_ . . ."

"I know _of_ . . ."

"I . . . was . . ."

Ethos exhaled slowly.

"—you survived."

A nod. He didn't need the details.

"We were friends. We trained together . . . what . . . ten years."

"It takes a rather ridiculous amount of time to train us, doesn't it? Especially since so much can go wrong . . ."

"We . . . his name was Shiloh."

"Hm. I know."

Ethos began to rock him, slowly, letting the motions seep into his own frame until it became a thing done for _his_ comfort, too.

"He was my first and I . . . you understand?"

A nod. Ethos remembered how startled Praxis had been that he wasn't chaste himself, but what Fighters didn't seem to understand was that growing up in training with the same class of Navigators had a tendency to do that: even knowing that they'd likely see no more of one another once assigned, once given a task-name and a Fighter . . . well. Love was hard that way, but so it went—or at the very least there were the hormones of one's adolescence, and that was just as dangerous—

"And he's _dead_ , Ethos."

The linguist's arm tightened compulsively, free hand beginning to stroke at Selene's hair, hoping it was comforting, hearing no word of protest. "Oh, Selene, I'm so sorry. I can't . . ."

_You've wrestled with almost losing Helios—I can't imagine—I see Praxis go through it so much and it's never—it never gets easier—_

"The last night we were together . . . he asked me if I loved him."

A pause. As gently as he knew: "Did you?"

A laugh, caught somewhere between hard mirth and a sob. "I told him no."

_But what you said isn't the truth. Selene . . ._

And then Selene was crying—silently—but so. He curled his knees up against his chest, let himself be held, be rocked, letting Ethos' soft, soft frame become, for just a moment, his Whaea's—

"Kua mau taku iro."

"Shh."

"But it's true. I should have known—I shouldn't have fucking lied—I thought—it'd be easier for him, for us—if I—and then I met Helios and—no one, not even Shiloh—"

"It's never easy, Selene, not ever, not for anyone . . ."

Ethos didn't think, just pressed his lips against Selene's forehead and held them there until the shuddering cadence of his breath finally settled, until his cheeks were dry, until the day-shift lights snapped on and Praxis (sweat-drenched, breathless, famished) found them thus.

* * *

"Thank you."

The showers were crowded—mostly with Fighters—but Ethos and Selene had found vacant heads and were hastily rinsing off regulation soap. Selene's head was ducked, the scars along his shoulder and back waxing pale as he moved; Ethos closed his eyes.

"Ethos?"

"I heard."

"I mean it."

Selene looked up, saw the heat in the linguist's cheeks, smiled gently. It was hard now not to want to hug him, hold him close, remind him that _he_ was not alone—so, so often he'd thought that Ethos of all people needed such an anchor, too, as he was to Praxis and himself . . . who looked out for Ethos? Anyone? Who really held him when—

"Sorry. It's an awkward place to talk but I just—before we lose the chance—"

"Yeah. It's okay." Ethos' eyes flickered open and he gave an awkward grin, tapping off the water and shuffling to find a towel. "I'll see you on the bridge."

"Ethos—"

Selene slipped on the water-strewn floor, caught himself, caught up—he didn't fully know why he was desperate—

Ethos gave a short cry of shock, enveloped suddenly in the Navigator's arms, cheek pressed into a shoulder, the skin soft and smooth, the mingled sweat and steam still fresh. But it wasn't like _that_ —just—unfiltered gratitude—

Without quite realizing why, he began to laugh, the sound a pealing bell around the tiled, noisy room.

* * *

Helios, still aching, turned to let the water wash away the soap from the small of his back—and saw—

* * *

The day was cold and thick and slow. Despite the run, Helios found breakfast and lunch both distasteful—he had to force himself to choke the rations down. Worse, perhaps, than that was how Selene seemed to have disappeared: he was no doubt lost somewhere in a knot of Navigators but—

* * *

"I need to ask you something."

Helios closed his eyes, forced his voice to find a steady measure and an unassuming tone. It wasn't fair to be angry at Selene. It wasn't fair to let the colony play tricks on him again, or all the men who'd lied—

_This is my Rawiri._

_Rawiri._

"Rawiri. Please. I'm—I'm worried about something."

"Hm." His Navigator, lost in thought at the desk, turned slowly. "What is it, Afon?"

"I saw you and Ethos in the showers today and—"

"Oh!" There was heat in olive cheeks but those star-grey eyes were steady: if there was no shame, neither was there guilt. "Oh, he—I—it was a hug, Afon. I . . . something happened this morning and that's all I needed."

"You could have come to me!"

Gentle hands were spread wide. "Encke had you, eh? Besides, I—when you were gone that month, you know, I was close to them. Praxis, Ethos. And today I just needed Ethos."

Reading the open mouth and hardened eyes: "Ah! God, Afon. For a _talk._

". . . Hey."

Selene stood up, crouched next to Afon's chair, thought better of the distance and eased himself into the latter's lap. "Hey, Afon, I . . . You can understand that there are just some things I don't—things I need to tell someone besides you. Maybe just before you, anyway. To get it out, to work through the ugliness before I bring it to you. That's what this was."

Afon set his teeth, caught between _everyone else_ —and his Rawiri. Everyone else had been bastards, that's all, had reveled in the shadow of his protection (which was to say nothing of all else he did for them)—and then been gone. Soon as they'd found someone they liked better, or when they were bored—or when what few credits they had ran out (that was most common of all)—but fuck if he didn't foolishly lose his heart, again, again—

_But what was I? Fifteen, sixteen? Just a kid who ran that way, who slept with anyone, who let fucking around keep his belly full (sort of) and kept him safe (I guess)—but this—_

_(He's_ Rawiri _, you idiot—get your head out of your fucking ass and_ think _about it: he must be hurting bad if he went to Ethos and—just talked, he said, just talked—just hugged him naked in the fucking showers but they're friends—friends could do that—couldn't they—?)_

"Fuck," he muttered.

"Afon." Rawiri's voice was low, was hoarse, was shaking because here again they were in uncharted territory: here again he didn't know just which Afon he was dealing with. "Afon, this morning I learned that I'd lost someone. And when I said I needed Ethos, I just—this man was someone I loved, too. I did. And I lost him and it seemed like—like losing you." Lithe hands began to card through the Fighter's hair, playing with the lengths of it, rubbing at the stubble and clutching at the longer strands. "It had everything to do with Ethos, but not in that way—you see?"

"Who—"

"Did you—did the Fighters get a list this morning?"

Afon jerked his head, a weary grimace crossing his face; only then did Rawiri catch the implications. _That attack could have hit us, too—maybe should have—maybe was meant to—but it didn't—_

"Tch. So he was a Navigator—"

"Yes."

Afon listened in silence—strange silence, it seemed to Rawiri—as he slowly spooled the thread of the story, giving Afon more details because he was privy to them; Ethos had been about getting the kernel of the thing into the open, lest it devour him; with Afon now it was merely honest grief in the sense of both words.

And the Fighter listened without a word to this:

How his Rawiri once had lied.

How he'd loved another man.

How he hadn't _realized_ it until that man, until Shiloh, was dead.

And the only thought he could manage was this, in the end: _It could have been me and it wasn't._

—in that his Rawiri _did_ love him, had said as much, never went a day or night without reminding him in one way or another: subtly or with such grace and fervor that their neighbors knew.

—in that Rawiri had never lied to him.

—in that whatever he'd done since losing his virginity with Shiloh must have been—exquisite—because fuck, he was the most skillful lover Afon had known . . .

Or else they were just meant for each other.

The naïve teenager buried in him (from before everyone else fucked it up) wanted just that. Just that.

When Rawiri had talked himself to silence Afon sighed, his breath enough to stir a few hairs from the top of his Navigator's head.

_Fuck. I guess it's my turn._

Because Rawiri didn't need coddling, wasn't asking for it, not from him: now he understood what he'd meant by needing Ethos. Yes, Ethos was—in his own way—such a safe haven: unassuming, gentle; not sexless, certainly, but neither was he primordially male, all but exuding masculinity like the Fighters and some Navigators—

_Fuck. Leave Ethos out of this, Afon. He's not the point._

The man who'd crawled into his lap, by contrast, _was_.

His weight, his warmth, his breathing soothed the Fighter. He closed his eyes, knowing Rawiri would let him take his time.

"I didn't know about love until I met you, so I can't say I understand. But."

He licked his lips.

"Listen, on the streets, after V left, I . . . I mean, I was a kid, you know? A kid who'd just figured out what he liked and needed to eat and wasn't about to . . . I respected myself enough to not run with anyone. A—a gang, you know? And fuck there were a lot of them. I wasn't—I'm not a killer. I . . . I could have been. Fuck. That shit with Loki—they never told me how bad he was. I just remember . . ."

Rawiri's hand squeezed his—gently—bringing him back from half-lost memories: he didn't need any more seeds for nightmares. What was done was done.

"Without Valentina, I had to feed myself, protect myself. One way to do that was to . . . I—I felt safe, you know? Whoever I was with, he'd feed me, protect me, I'd watch his back. And . . . I still respected myself. Or I tried to, in the beginning. I never told them my real name. Never let them hurt me. But."

Afon shivered, swallowed, wondered if any of this was crossing a line: obviously Rawiri knew he'd been with others—but that wasn't the same, not by a long shot.

"I . . . wanted love. I made things up about the men I was with. I thought I fell in love. Some were real nice, you know? Uhm—they seemed—they weren't."

"Shh. They caught you, Afon. You didn't know. You're a survivor and—that's just what you did. You didn't starve, you didn't kill. You're here."

_God. You don't hate me?_

The softness in Rawiri's voice nearly made him cry. Still so fucking gentle, so unassuming—how?

"Every time they'd drop me, hm, I'd hate them, hate myself, wonder what the fuck the point of it all was, really. Because every time I thought that I'd found love."

Suddenly Afon began to laugh, to laugh until he really _did_ cry, until tears cut sharp tracks along his cheeks and he couldn't believe how naïve he'd once been. "Then I met you. Then I met you and I knew almost immediately . . . I'd been so, _so_ wrong before. That _loss_ , though—whatever it really was—that I think I understand."

His broad, broad, calloused hands began to run through Rawiri's hair, slipped down to stroke his cheeks, to catch the fingertips curled against his shoulder. "I'm sorry about Shiloh. I am. I'm sorry that he died and that . . . "

"He—he was never you, Afon. You have to know that. Please. It just . . . it hurts. He was my first. He was a good man."

"Shh. I do, I get all that . . . Don't you worry about me."

Afon took his Navigator's hands in his, caressing them; Rawiri shuddered—Afon hadn't quite figured it out but his hands were _sensitive_ , more-so than his collar-bone or the soft flesh just above his hips; Shiloh, though, had known, had delighted in them, too.

And then the caress became a kiss, became lips and tongue and gentle teeth exploring the tendons and knuckles and the valleys of the bones and the smooth palms; Afon's eyes flicked up, catching Rawiri's coyly, knowingly now, as the whites flashed and they rolled and his panting Navigator moaned, began to shift against him, desperately, seeking friction, sharp relief: the most sacred, co-wrought struggle towards the brightest light.

**Author's Note:**

> _“Do I walk? Have I feet still? I raise my eyes, I let them move round, and turn myself with them, one circle, one circle, and I stand in the midst. All is as usual. Only—”_
> 
>  
> 
> From Chapter 11 of Erich Maria Remarque's _All Quiet on the Western Front_ : funnily enough (given that Starfighter and SF:E are basically war stories set in space, as well as love stories), I don't like war stories much. But I read Remarque's work in high school and haven't forgotten it since. The narrator's anguish at losing his best friend/beloved comrade seemed fitting here: Paul (said narrator) knew that they weren't invincible, but he was still holding out this threadbare hope that they'd both make it through the war. Similarly, Selene's probably in the same headspace as Paul, despite everything he and Helios have been through, hoping against hope.


End file.
